Innocent Bystander

Oh, August...we hardly knew ye...

I am of two minds of August, now that it's all but gone: It went by way too quickly and it dragged on forever. I'm not quite sure which is correct. I'll have to get back to you on that.

It seems like forever ago when it started, yet --WTF?!--September 1 is staring us in the face. August has always been the best and the worst of times for me. As a kid, it was the month of our week-long vacation in Atlantic City, but it also meant back to school was right around the corner. Time stood still in those days. The 3-month school hiatus lasted seemingly forever (the dominant word in this post so far, for those of you keeping track), and then it was irretrievably gone. By Labor Day, the last "official" day of summer, the days were getting shorter. School not only beckoned, but so did the fall TV season.

None of that matters now. August is the home of my annual post-Comic-Con depression. It's hot and all the days pretty much blend together. If a vacation is involved, it's nothing like that magical time as a kid. TV has no seasons anymore. Only the broadcast networks still seem to adhere to a September to May schedule, but it's so bolloxed up at times it doesn't make an impact; shows come on when they come on and disappear just as quickly.

So August is both friend and foe, but nonetheless I'm happy to see it gone. Kind of surprised by how quick it was--and how long it was. But that's what she said.

It's not really any good unless it makes your legs shaky...

I took my last walk in August today. Lately, I've been walking about twice a week, and trying to shake myself of the mileage thing and go for length of time spent walking instead. I want to walk at least 2 hours each time I head out, and as that goes, tonight was kind of epic...almost 3 hours, in fact. And this time I came up with a new way that was at least partially in uncharted--for me--territory. I walked 6.69 miles, starting at 4:15 or so, and got home just around 7:00.

Here's a map of my journey:

And, as always, I've learned that it's not a really good walk unless it makes your legs shaky and your feet hurt. (You thought I was talking about something else in the title, didn't you? It's the only reason why you're here, isn't it? You're soooo predictable.) I'm experiencing both right now, I'm happy to say.

Since I covered up most of the street names on the map, here's how it went: north on Fourth Ave. to Hillcrest and Washington Ave.; west on Washington to Goldfinch; south on Goldfinch until it becomes Reynard Way and runs into Laurel; west on Laurel to North Harbor Drive, where the airport begins; Harbor Drive to Seaport Village; Seaport Village to the Embarcadero and Hilton Bayfront; the pedestrian bridge to Petco Park, and then home through the Gaslamp.

That's a long walk. Luckily I prepared myself with a new iPod playlist called (and pardon me for this stroke of personal genius) "A Long Walk."

Today's walk brought my August total up to 57.18 miles, which seems like a piker compared to July's total, which was 86.45 miles. But July had the yearly foot-busting marathon known as Comic-Con in it (responsible for 53 miles in one week by itself alone), so that's not a typical month. Since April when I started this walking thing, I have walked 207.25 miles. Not bad for someone who spent most late afternoons napping on the couch.

I am at a point where I feel kind of guilty if I don't get in at least 4 hours of walking a week. Don't worry, I still nap, just not every day. I'm someone who believes the word "nap" is pretty much the sexiest 3-letter word in the English language, so I'm not about to leave that totally behind. I just nap much less these days.

It's also important to note that I live in an absolutely beautiful city, near a bay that feeds into the Pacific Ocean, and it's pretty much a joy to walk here. It's also something I hope to do year 'round. And yes, I always take the time to stop and smell the roses, and other flowers. Except maybe when they're giant and painted on a wall...

Friday Foto #190...

New York state of mind...along the High Line.

Happy anniversary new apartment...

One year ago today I moved into my new apartment, the third apartment in the same building in which I've lived since 1998, when I first moved to San Diego. As apartments go I'm still kind of getting used to it. It took me about 8 years to view the last one--which I lived in for 10 years--as "home." But then again the concept of home has always been a strange one for me.

When I dream of home, I almost always dream of the house I spent my youngest years in. I lived there from birth through about the beginning of high school, when my grandparents died and we moved into their house. My parents lived in that house until they both died (about 9 years apart), and I often visited them there. But my dreams of home are almost always of that first house. I don't know why.

I do like this new apartment, but I wonder if somewhere, deep in the dark and cobwebbed recesses of my mind, if I just look at any apartment I've lived in as just a locker where I keep my stuff and sleep and eat. I have never had the urge to own a home. It's just too much work, and probably too much responsibility for me (that explains the whole lack of family, kids, and wife thing, too, probably, if we're going to take the time to bargain-basement psychoanalyize me...and really, I wish we wouldn't. There are far more fun things to do.). So maybe the very transient nature of just renting an apartment has taken its toll on my fragile psyche. Still...I have lived in the same building for over 12 years now. That must make me some kind of common-law resident, right?

I suppose at some point I'll come around and view this place as home. After all, all my stuff is here, right? And I do enjoy coming home and settling in for the night and just closing the blinds and shutting the world out. And I guess that's what home is, isn't it? A little port in the storm, a place to hang your hat, a refuge from the outside world. All those things describe this still kinda-sorta "new" apartment for me, thankfully. Which is good, since I just signed on for another one-year "tour of duty."

Happy birthday, Mom...

Every couple of years or so, I am lucid enough to remember to write about my mom on her birthday, which is today. She would have been 92 years old, and if she stayed lucid, too, she'd be royally pissed off right now.

All my mom's favorite soap operas are off the air these days. As the World Turns stopped turning, Guiding Light blinked out. These shows, along with countless others (Young and the Restless, Bold and the Beautiful, The Edge of Night, The Secret Storm, even an occasional ABC soap like General Hospital) were all part of her daily routine. She was a stay-at-home mom, a "housewife" as we called them back in that time period, and her day consisted of laundry and housework in the morning, a quick lunch (a "tea biscuit" from Wenzel's Bakery and the ever-present glass of iced tea, which sat in the fridge, never emptying, always half-full) and then her soaps in the afternoon. At 4:00pm it all wrapped up and that's when dinner preparation started. This was her life, day in and day out, with grocery shopping and the hairdresser thrown in on Friday, and maybe a trip downtown on Saturday and (for a while at least) Sunday School at our church. (Well...HER church.)

I don't know how she did it for so long. It sure doesn't seem like a lot of fun writing about it. Lord knows I have more than enough trouble with the mediocrity of my own life, and I pretty much leave the house every day. (But then again, I'm a Gemini, and I bore easily. Hell, I'm bored with this post already.)

My mom did all of this--took care of two kids and a husband who slept a lot because of his nocturnal job (as a milk delivery man)--and still managed to fit in about 8 hours of TV viewing per day. Sad, but true. She and my dad went places a lot...mainly shopping malls and the Jersey Shore for vacations and one-day casino outings...but she was basically a homebody. We lived in two separate houses when I was growing up, and the second one was her parents' house that she inherited. I don't think she--or by extension, we--ever paid a day's rent in her life (except at the Crown Motel on Pacific Avenue in Atlantic City for one week in late August of each year).

It was because of her routine every day that she couldn't understand my restlessness. When I was struggling with my TV graphic designer job in Pittsburgh, she would tell me I couldn't quit. I didn't...until a year after she died. The frustration was too great. A vast gap separated her generation from mine, and some of the kids I grew up with settled into "their" way instead of going "our" way. Their way was do what you can to make money to get by and raise your family. Our way was there had to be a way to make a living that was both rewarding and satisfying. I found that way, I think (most of the time), but I can't say I'm any happier because of it. My mom had a strong streak of melancholy about her, something she passed along to me, I'm afraid. I both embrace it and abhor it. But mainly I just kind of deal with it (badly, at times, as some friends will confirm). I have, thankfully, forsaken the long sighs and sorrowful "Oh, well..."s that trailed off into some kind of "what are you going to do?" unfinished sentence, that were part and parcel of her demeanor.

But you know what...I still miss that part of her, too.

SPOILER ALERT! The Internet ruins everything...

Like you, dear reader, I spend an inordinate amount of time on the Internet. Unlike you, probably, I spend most of that time looking for a nice Russian wife, but that's a story for another time.

Lately I've been dismayed by the amount of "spoiler alerts" popping up on my page-viewing. Most of these are because of leaked photos and plot points from upcoming movies. I love movies almost as much as I love Russian women. (Actually, next to an aged quasi-hooker who tried to pick me up in a dive bar in downtown San Diego years ago, my one exposure to a Russian woman actually from Russia was a person who worked in my apartment building, also years ago. Let me tell you, the Russians are NOT customer service oriented people. However, if you want a small Eastern European country invaded, they should be your first choice.) But I digress.

Currently, there is an incredible amount of photos available from The Avengers shoot in Cleveland and The Dark Knight Rises in Pittsburgh (hmmm...any idea why both these films are being shot in aging Eastern cities?) available on the Internet. These are not photos I particularly want to see. I don't need to see (SPOILER ALERT!) Captain America fighting guys in motion-capture suits, or (SPOILER ALERT!) what the Batpod looks like, nor the (SPOILER ALERT!) flying thing from the next Batman movie (which evidently took out a street light in Pittsburgh). I'm perfectly fine waiting to spend anywhere from $9 to $12 bucks to see them on the big screen next summer, thank you very much.

There are no secrets anymore. I blame this on the Kardashians, who seemingly live their entire lives in front of cameras. Not only do people shoot everything they do, they then post it everywhere possible. It's impossible to avoid the Kardashians (they're like dog poop in a dog park). And the attitude that spawned them carries over into everything else on the Internet--unless you become a Luddite and denounce all technology.  Paparazzi take their cue from camera-ready families like the Kardashians and now feel anything and everything is fair game to shoot and post. The current Internet generation--these young whippersnappers--get accustomed to instant gratification and knowing everything as close as possible to when it happens. This in turn ultimately causes the ruin of Western civilization as we now know it...which isn't so hot to begin with.

So...to summarize: The Internet ruins everything and the Kardashians are to blame. I rest my case. Thank you.

The Hour on BBC America...

My on-screen TV program guide reduces the new BBC America show, The Hour, to a three-word synopsis: "Current affairs show." That makes it sound like something that used to show up on Sunday morning local TV, when the FCC required--and maybe still does--so many hours of local programming per week. (These days, that requirement--if still standing--is probably filled with endless hours of repetitious newscasts, narrated by repetitious anchors. I swear to God they clone them.)

But The Hour isn't that at all. It's a new drama--part of BBC America's ridiculously titled "Dramaville" (they're big on these programming titles: "Supernatural Saturday," "Ministry of Laughs"), that takes place in 1956 Britain, at--of all places--the BBC itself. Part journalism story, part Cold War thriller, part romance, the show will have inevitable comparisons to this side of the pond's Mad Men. Everyone smokes, women are trying to change their lot in life in the men's world of careers, the devilishly handsome Dominic West reminds one of Jon Hamm, and everyone smokes. Oh, I mentioned that? Well, it's worth mentioning twice.

Freddie Lyon (Ben Whishaw) plays the genius TV guy who envisions a whole new kind of news show for the Beeb, one that ditches the newsreel format for edgier, live news. His partner in crime--and love interest, if one-sided (at the moment)--Bel Rowley (Romola Garai, very reminiscent of Kate Winslett) has impressed her BBC bosses enough to garner the producer job at the new show, but Freddie is viewed as too much of a loose cannon, plus he wants to "present," meaning be on the air. That slot is already filled by Hector Madden (Dominic West), who already has his eyes on the shapely Miss Rowley (they called them "Miss" back then, folks), even though he's married, and his father-in-law may have had a hand in his newest job placement. And into all of this hub-bub of the start-up of a new show comes a murder mystery, one which involves the reluctant Freddie, urged on by an old friend to investigate a murder MI6 is putting the hush-hush to, and one which may have its roots in the Cold War, during a time when it when it was at its chilliest, the late 1950s. (It's very cool to see Torchwood's Burn Gorman playing a mystery man who may or may not be a British spy.)

The Hour is stylish, fascinating and evocative. Yeah, it has its roots in Mad Men, that comparison has to be acknowledged. No new show that takes place in the middle of the 20th century, including the upcoming The Playboy Club on NBC and Pan Am on ABC (excuse me...it's more correctly known as the breathless network announcer calls it: "ABC's Pan Am on ABC"...what network was that again, please?) can escape that, no matter what people like director Thomas Schlamme say of the latter. No network executive ever said "Get me a show set in the '60s!" before Mad Men became such Emmy-bait. Whatever its point of origin, The Hour is throughly enjoyable, and its upcoming stablemates in "Dramaville"--Luther (starring Idris Elba as a damaged detective), Whitechapel (about a series of Jack the Ripper-like murders in modern day London), and the excellent State of Play (the original BBC mini-series mixing journalism, murder, and politics and the basis for the so-so American movie starring Russell Crowe)--all look like winners, too. "Dramaville" promises to be "the home for groundbreaking British drama," and so far, with this one show, it's living up to its boast.

Friday Foto #189...

New York state of mind...along the High Line.

Exhibit FF, your honor...

Last week--in fact, the last time I blogged here (I'm sooo bad at this anymore...that may be a sad hint, dear reader)--I told you about how the Fantastic Four entered--and ultimately changed--my life, 50 years ago. I think it's rare for any one person to be able to look at one ten-cent funnybook (as our parents were wont to call them in that day and age) and be able to point out that that slim pamphlet changed their life. But I suppose I'm no one special in that regard: I'm sure there are literally thousands of comics writers and artists who can do the same thing. Each of us have what I like to refer to as our own "private Rosebuds," if I can steal a metaphor from Orson Welles and Herman Mankiewicz's Citizen Kane (and not mean William Randolph Hearst's pet-name for his mistress's genitalia).

Well, my brother, Rick, voiced displeasure with my "tattered and torn" comment, when I mentioned we still had that issue which he had purchased 50 years ago on a rainy day in August 1961. He dug it out and took photos of it. As you can see, it still exists, a victim of the infamous "Marvel chipping" that haunts a lot of the books of that era, in that the cover's edges have chipped away. I would kind of be afraid to read this book, without white gloves and a hermetically-sealed container, but here it is in all its glory:

A bit bent and chipped, but certainly not tattered and torn. Would I like it to be in better condition? Sure...but I wouldn't trade this for all the 9.8 CGC slabbed copies in the world. This book has its own private pedigree, and it means the world to me. It all goes back to that day in August 1961, which you can read more about here, if you haven't already.

Friday Foto #188...

Blue window.